Kept
by Twisha
Summary: AU; Winter Hiatus Fill for Kink of the Castle meme. Prompt: Beckett has abducted her favorite author and keeps him cuffed, tied up and/or drugged in her bedroom to use whenever she likes. This is porn WITH plot, a dark, twisted plot, but a plot nonetheless. Just give it a try, you might like it.
1. Chapter 1

Fill for the Winter Hiatus Kink of the Castle meme.

WARNING: non-con prompt has non-con. I don't condone rape in any form. This is just fiction.

Beckett/Castle

Beckett has abducted her favorite author and keeps him cuffed, tied up and/or drugged in her bedroom to fuck whenever she likes.

* * *

He fights, at first. Of course he does. Not that it does any good.

From the moment he detects the sickly-sweet odor of chloroform in the rag, she has him. The next few hours are nightmarish, confusing, terrifying. He drifts in and out of consciousness, each time in a different place, each place unfamiliar. At one point he's sure he's in a car, the motion souring his stomach before he is dragged back under. Flashes of woods, a cabin, stairs. The cold dig of handcuffs at his wrists.

A woman's touch rouses him, in more ways than one. He cannot see ... a blindfold perhaps, but his thoughts are clearer. His hands, still bound, stretch above his head. He smells earth, mildew, and fresh-cut wood. That along with the shut-in feel of the air tells him that he's in some sort of basement. His mind searches for the name of the softness beneath him, bed, he's on a bed. The springs squeak as he shifts.

"Shhhh," the woman breathes, as if that would calm him. Her hands run feather-light over his bared chest. He's not sure where his shirt has gone. Probably the same place as his pants. He shivers, as much from the touch as the cold.

"I have money," he explains, "lots of it. Please don't hurt me, I have a family, a daughter!" His words are awkward to his own ears but his head is killing him and he's tied to a bed and maybe now isn't the time for eloquence. He feels more than hears her low chuckle and it chills him. There's something about it that suggest that its owner is not of sound mind. He tries again, "Please, anything you want, I'll give it to you, just let me go."

He feels her long legs slide over his, warm thighs coming to rest around his hips, soft fabric does nothing to hid the pressure of pert breasts over his heart. So that's where his shirt went. Her breath smells like vanilla and coffee and desperation as she whispers the words that crush any hope of escape into his mouth.

"I just want you."

Fuck.

He feels her straighten up and shift her weight. He's trying to think, surely there's something he can do to stop this but nothing comes to mind. She rolls her hips against his and his body responds. He grits his teeth, fighting to stay calm.

"Whoa, hey..." he babbles, trying to ignore the undulation teasing him into arousal, "I'm all for kinky and everything, but isn't this a little fast?" Her hands dance across his ribs once more, drawing a squeak.

"Shut up, Castle," she purrs, and he feels her moist tongue follow her hands.

He struggles, of course he does, but it doesn't do much good. She strips him of his boxers and laughs at his pleas, taking him in her hot mouth as he curses.

He holds out hope when she withdraws only for it to be dashed when he feels the prick of a needle at his elbow.

"This should help you relax," she says.

After that it's a mess of hands and tongues and sex. She's so warm and tight around him and he _can't see _but it's good, so very, very good. He groans at the sensation, something deep down inside him loving being used, being fucked, like some sort of animal. She rides him like a thoroughbred, drawing her pleasure from his very flesh. He can't help it, his body responds, it _wants_ this, his hips rise from the bed and before he knows it he's fucking her back. When he comes it's with a roar inside her, a bellow of ecstasy that rips his soul.

He wakes to find his hands free and the room empty. He was right, it's some kind of basement, freshly finished, with a bathroom off to one side. The water from the shower scalds his skin, but does nothing to remove the smell of her, the feel of her, the memory of the woman who used him.

By the time the water runs cold, he's formed a plan; get out of here, find a really good therapist, and write a bestseller about crazy female fans and the authors who get kidnapped by them. Unfortunately, as he surveys the room, he realizes that it's easier said than done. The door is locked from the outside, sturdy oak that for all his strength doesn't move an inch. He searches for something to pick the lock but comes up empty. In a dresser in the corner he finds clothes in his size, on a small table rests a Styrofoam temple crowned by a pair of chopsticks.

Obviously, she's planing on keeping him here for quite some time.

Maybe some food will help him think of something.

At least he likes Chinese.

* * *

I'm a diagnosed review junkie, so if you guys would drop a few, it would make me very, very, happy!


	2. Chapter 2

I forgot to mention that this is set pre-series. I do not own Castle, and neither does Kate. This is pure fiction. Rape is bad, m'kay?

* * *

One might think that being kidnapped and used for sex would be exciting. Maybe not as exciting as being kidnapped by aliens but at least a bit more interesting than the average day-to-day. Fear and adrenaline he can handle, but this, this is pure torture.

Rick Castle is _bored_.

After he eats, it takes him no time at all to thoroughly explore his prison, and frankly, he isn't impressed. It's bigger than he expected, about fifteen feet by twenty and, not including the facilities, is all one room. There's a tall trash can with a lid that pops up where he discards the Styrofoam but keeps the chopsticks. Office quality carpet, beige, and unfinished wood for walls. The door is positioned on one of the long dimensions near the corner, flanked by a speaker set in the wood on one side and a police-style drawer to pass things through on the other. The dresser, table, and pair of chairs are IKEA knockoffs, not too sturdy but serviceable. There's a plastic light fixture attached to the ceiling. Hell, if it weren't for the handcuffs, the queen-sized cast iron bed frame covered by a rumpled and inanely inoffensive comforter wouldn't look out of place in a country farmhouse.

He tries not to look at the handcuffs.

The bathroom isn't any better. There's a tub with a mint green shower curtain plus the essentials; soap, shampoo, conditioner, etc. plenty of toilet paper, a few towels. Years of living with only women has him trained and the damp one hangs from a bar on the far wall. There's a toothbrush, toothpaste, and an electric razor plugged into an outlet by the sink.

That's about it.

Not exactly Lady Irena's House of Pain.

He spends an hour or two trying to Macgyver a weapon out of either the razor or the chopsticks, or even some combination of both, but the razor won't come apart and there's nothing to sharpen the utensils on anyway so he gives up.

No one knows he's here. Meredith had managed to convince him that she and Alexis needed the entire summer to "bond", and he and Gina had finally called it quits for good about a month ago. He's supposed to be in the Hamptons finishing "Storm's Last Stand". He'd taken a break and gone for a walk on the beach when he'd been taken.

His mind shifts to his captor, this mystery woman. What does he know? Well, for one, she's gone to a lot of trouble to get him here, wherever here is. He doesn't think he's near the beach, the soil-smell isn't salty enough for that, but he doesn't feel the constant urban hum characteristic of the city either. Maybe somewhere upstate then. If he's lucky.

Two, she's a fan. This isn't a random kidnapping. She called him Castle, by name, and the chloroform trick must be some sort of sick joke, it's a mystery writer's cliche of course. She must have drugged him with something else too, chloroform doesn't really work all that well. Maybe some sort of injection? He thinks back, but he doesn't remember.

Three, she's been very careful to keep him from seeing her. That's a good sign. He hopes it means that she's planning on letting him go...eventually.

He paces for a bit, just for the heck of it, but it's not as fulfilling as it should be. Artistic license and all that. He bangs on the door for a while, earning himself a sore throat, but there's no answer so he gives that up too. He's about to dig the Styrofoam out of the garbage and draw silly faces with the chopsticks when the lights go out.

Her voice emerges from the speaker, "Take off your clothes and lie on the bed."

Well, he'll give her points for good grammar.

"What if I don't?" he challenges.

"Then I'll have to punish you," she answers.

"Ooh, punishment. Kinky." And just because he can't leave well enough alone he adds, "my safe word is apples."

He hears the door open and sees a bright flash of light before the stun gun hits him. His muscles seize and his jaw clenches with the electricity. He's in too much pain to resist as she hauls him towards the bed, easily securing him, handcuffs and blindfold both, once again. She stuffs something, a pill maybe, in his mouth and he swallows reflexively. She abandons him there for a while, long enough for whatever it is to get into his system. He's feeling warm, a little giddy even, when she returns. He even grins at her voice.

"Apples, hmm?"

"Yep," he mumbles, as she starts with the hands.

"You won't be needing it," she says.

She's right. He doesn't.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I know this is a dirty little story and we're all going to the Special Hell together. I'll bring the pizza. A big thank you and shout out to Purplangel, for asking me if it was ok to fill the same prompt. Go read her story too! And Reviews=love. Just sayn'.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is nothing but smut. Remember, Rick is high as balls in this and doesn't care that he's being raped. There will be repercussions later, never fear.

* * *

He has no idea what she's given him but it's good. It's _damn_ good. His heart speeds up and an euphoric rush overtakes him. The downy inside of the sweatpants tickles his skin and on the one hand it's _too much_ and on the other _not nearly enough_. Her slim hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once and he hears her soft chuckle when he arches into them. His shirt parts, she's caressing his chest, his nipples and it's still not enough and he whines.

"More," he gasps, needy, desperate, wanton.

"You want more, Castle?" the woman's voice teases, oh how she teases! Her hands are gone and he pouts for a moment until he hears the slither of clothing being shed near his ear. His imagination is as on fire as the rest of him and he longs to see, to touch, to worship this goddess beside him. His arms strain as he pulls at the cuffs but they are cruel. They are unyielding. He growls in frustration but then she's there, she's on top of him, kissing him, licking his flesh and he plants his foot on the bed and thrusts his hips upward.

Why the _fuck_ is he still wearing pants?

"Easy there, bucko," she admonishes, and the memory of her riding him sends another shot of heat to his loins. He's rock hard, painfully, agonizingly hard, and it would all be so much better if she would just touch him, but she's taking it slow. Fuck, fuck, FUCKING HELL he so needs these pants gone!

By the time she strips him, he has descended into incoherency, his vocabulary reduced to "Please!" and "Oh GOD" and an occasional "Fuck!" plus all the iterations thereof. By the time she takes him in her mouth he has collapsed into nonsensical diphthongs.

He's on fire, so hot that her mouth feels cool, licking and sucking and teasing and he just can't stand it. He wants to move, but she holds him down, fingers bruising his thrashing hips, breasts brushing his aching thighs. His head lolls to the side when she cups his sack and takes most of him down her throat. The tiny, rational, irreverent, part of his brain is impressed, he's not small, but it's soon washed away by the undulations of her tongue.

He feels moisture at his wrists but doesn't give a shit because his orgasm is building at the base of his spine and it's going to be a monster. His toes curl and uncurl and he's making little mewling noises in time with his thrusts. He sobs with his entire being when she removes her mouth only to take him inside a second later. Her thighs grip his and she's so wet and tight and she rides him with abandon. He bends his back and her arms snake around him, raking his shoulder blades with her nails. Her tongue laves his neck and he pumps one final time and they explode together, a mess of limbs and sweat and exultation. The pleasure rocks his entire body, pulled from the earth itself up through his toes to his crown and back again, wave after wave of ecstasy that shakes his very soul.

She drapes herself across him as he floats down, gasping and panting like a drowned man. He's still roasting inside, feverish even, and his heart throbs against his breastbone. His wrists burn, painfully this time and he's pretty sure that slickness trickling down is arms is his own blood.

His unseen lover shifts and the connection between them is broken. Despite his massive orgasm, he's still half-hard, something that hasn't happened since college. He doesn't doubt it's pharmaceutically induced. He hears running water and she returns, sliding a straw between his lips.

"Drink," she murmurs, "or you'll overheat."

He obeys, the cool liquid slides down his throat but does little to disperse the heat within.

He hears the jingle of chains and feels the chill of metal against his ankle. He hisses when he feels her hands on his arm.

"Shhhh," she whispers again, in an attempt to calm. "I'm just going to take a look at your wrists. I'm going to release you, but if you try to escape or touch the blindfold, you will be punished again, do you understand?"

He nods, still incapable of speech, and hears the soft click of the key.

His over-heated brain works furiously as the cuffs open...

* * *

Smut is SO MUCH FUN! I love writing it, nothing is off limits! Anyway, thanks for reading and don't forget to review (I'm looking at you, all those silent followers!). Even if you don't review, I love you anyway.

Oh, and if anyone guesses what drugs she gave him I'll give you a virtual cookie. And spoilers, if you want them!


	4. Chapter 4

Short chapter today because it's my hubby's turn on the computer.

* * *

He's a cuddler.

That's ... unexpected.

She thinks he considered escape, something about the way his body tensed when she released the cuffs, but the sound of the stun gun powering up made him reconsider.

His wrists are a mess. She should have expected that. She meant to get leather restraints, she ordered them, but the chance to snare him came sooner than she had expected so she had to make do.

Apparently, Richard Castle is just full of surprises.

Pulling on her underwear and a light robe, she goes in search of the first aid kit. When she returns, he's on his side cradling his damaged wrists. She hopes she didn't hurt him too badly.

She returns to the bed, he curls in towards her, seeking contact. Part of that is the Ecstasy, he craves touch. That should last a few more hours at least. She feels a slight twinge of guilt for using him like this, but she pushes it aside. She's not hurting him, he's clearly enjoying their encounters so what's the problem?

He whimpers as she dresses his wounds, sounding more like a little boy than the thirty-six year old womanizer she knows him to be. He's divorcing his wife, probably in favor of a newer model. He's sent his child across the country. He's famous for showing up at events unshaven, signing women's chests, all classic signs of an unrepentant bad boy. His police record is even more telling. Theft of a police horse, naked? Really?

She feels him stir as she packs up the supplies. His stubble scratches her leg as he mumbles "y'smell like cherries..."

Certainly, full of surprises.

She shifts her weight, preparing to leave.

"Don't go," he whispers.

She freezes. His arms snake around her waist. Her hand is halfway to the stun gun before she realizes what he's doing. Her brain screams at her that it's just a ruse, that he's trying to lull her into a false sense of security but her body refuses to listen. She allows him to draw her into an embrace.

What now?

Slowly, ever so slowly, his fingers begin to dance. Light, at first, across her back, then he finds his way to the short hair at the nape of her neck. His fingertips trace her cheeks, her eyebrows, the soft curve of her nose, seeking and learning things unseen. When he reaches her lips, he quickly follows them with his own, not the desperate hunger of before, but the gentle exploration of a long time lover.

She senses her robe part, and feels the caress of his palm against her breast, weighing and measuring the plump flesh. The flick of his thumb over her nipple makes her gasp, and he grins into her mouth.

Before she realizes it, she's beneath him, moaning and arching. It's humiliating, really, but as he forces the lace aside, pushing deep within, her reluctance vaporizes.

It's so good, she can almost believe it's real.

* * *

I'm overwhelmed at the response to this, thank you all so much! I've never had a story be this popular. I'm so glad you are enjoying it. Your wonderful reviews inspire me, so keep it up and I'll keep writing.


	5. Chapter 5

Another short chapter, (sorry Ceetee!) because today is my son's sixth birthday and I have to get cupcakes to take to his school. I hope you like it though.

* * *

Jesus Christ on a cracker, he _hurts_.

It's like the worst hangover he's ever had multiplied by ten. His mouth rasps like sandpaper and he's pretty certain that someone has attempted to flush his eyes with krazy glue. He's sweaty and sticky and sore all over, particularly his neck and shoulders. He's also wrenched something in his back, the muscles tight and clenching around his spine when he moves.

He'd forgotten the people just aren't meant to bend that way.

He'd forgotten a lot of things apparently.

He groans, ripping his eyelids apart. The light stabs needles in his brain. Water. He needs water. He stumbles into the bathroom half blind, heedless of his nudity because really, what does it matter now? He's never going to leave here alive. A sense of pure self-loathing consumes him. He was free of the handcuffs, she can't weigh that much, he should have escaped already...

Or at least tried.

The water stings, first his back and then his lacerated wrists, but he welcomes it. He deserves the pain, all of it and more, after what he's done.

He could be home, free and clear of this hell. He could be, he _should_ be with Alexis right now, but he hadn't even _tried_. He'd let that woman rape him, wrap his wrists, and then he'd gone for more of his own free will.

He'd made love to her.

He'd made love to his rapist, his captor, a woman he'd never seen but who had stalked and kidnapped him, locked him away and given him no sign that he would ever be free again.

And he'd _enjoyed_ it.

How sick is that?

He tilts his head back, letting the shower quench his parched throat. It doe nothing to erase his disgust, his shame, his utter humiliation. He's a bestselling author, a father, a millionaire but now, look at what he's been reduced to, an (un)willing sex toy, too afraid or horny to even attempt to fight back.

Why hadn't he fought back?

She'd drugged him, but even that had been easy. He should have spit it out, or choked, or something, anything. Instead he'd swallowed it without complaint, like a child trying to please his mother.

What sort of a man does that?

The water runs cold before he realizes it. He hasn't even bothered with shampoo. He still reeks of her. His blood stains the towel as he scrubs himself dry but he is beyond caring. He stumbles out of the bathroom, grabs the comforter, and cocoons himself within. Not on the bed though, he can't face that. He huddles in the corner, eyes staring blankly into the distance.

Time passes.

Hours, maybe even days, later he comes back to himself. Little by little, he fits the jagged pieces of his mind together. He begins to notice things again. There are new additions to his prison, a mini-fridge and a small bookcase. Bread and granola bars grace the shelves, next to a few, shiny apples.

Apples. Funny.

He snorts. Of course he got the crazy fan with a sick sense of humor.

His muscles have turned into knots, protesting even the slightest movement. He pushes through, however, making his way to the dresser. It's not cold in here, not exactly, but it's not warm either and he's tired of being naked. He finds another pair of sweats and a t-shirt that reads "NYPD". Huh, now that's strange, where would she get such a thing? Is she in law enforcement? That would explain the cuffs, and the calling him by his last name as well, now that he thinks about it. Could his mystery woman be a cop? That's kind of cool actually. It makes him feel a little better about getting taken so easily, not much, but a little.

His mind spinning now, he's powerless to stop it. How can she be a cop? Cops have to pass psych evals, regularly, and an obsession like hers should have been impossible to hide. The shirt is a little threadbare, so maybe she was a cop but isn't anymore? Something must have happened, something truly terrible, but he has no way of figuring out what.

He'll just have to ask her when she comes back.

At least she bought him dinner.

* * *

Wow, I'm amazed by the response to this story! Almost 90 followers, I can't believe it. I want to thank everyone who reads and supports this story, it means the world to me, it really does. Your constant reviews keep me smiling. Thank you all, so very much.


	6. Chapter 6

This might be the last chapter for a while as I have some real life concerns to take care of (you know, the whole Christmas thing and whatnot ;). Updates will not be as frequent as they have been but I'll do my best to get you something every now and then to tide you over. I will finish this, never fear. Thank you all for supporting me. It has been wonderful! I hope you like this chapter.

* * *

OK, time to think.

Rick scrubs his face with one hand, trying to rid himself of that awful groggy feeling. He doesn't do this, doesn't feel sorry for himself, doesn't give up. He's Richard freakin' Castle, and he's not going to go down without a fight.

So, think.

When he'd married Gina, she'd forced him to attend a two day seminar on "How to be a Celebrity". He'd bitched about it heartily, he'd been famous for a decade, what more was there to know? Gina had gotten her way, as usual, and he'd spent most of the weekend bored out of his skull.

The lecture on kidnapping had been interesting however.

Some of it had consisted of advice on how to thwart a kidnapping. Be aware of your surroundings, be paranoid, "Assume the office or plant you're visiting has been penetrated by people adversarial to your interests."

He remembers thinking that that was no way to live. He might have to adjust his thinking on that point.

Then there had been instruction on what to do during the attempt. He'd laughed along with the others at the man's choice of words. "If you visualize ahead of time—"I'm going to decide at a critical moment that no one has direct physical control over me'—you might literally be able to haul ass." It had seemed funny at the time, now, not so much. He pushed back a wave of guilt. He'd had the perfect chance to prevent all of this, and he'd blown it.

Then again, he had been taken from his house in the Hamptons. The first thing he'd done upon purchasing the house had been to install a high tech security system, more for his daughter than himself. He should have been safe. He'd been alone but not overly exposed. As he ponders, his respect for his captor grows accordingly. She'd obviously planned this very, very well.

Other tips, such as "make a lot of noise and cause a spectacle" had been rendered irrelevant. There had been no one around to hear, even if he had been able. The drugs had hit him almost immediately. Unconsciousness had also prevented him from taking note of their route. Very clever on her part.

She might have an accomplice, he's not a small man and it must have been difficult transporting his dead weight. Then again, perhaps not. He knows she's strong because she had little trouble getting him on the bed after his "punishment". He shivers, best not to dwell on that bit, or what followed. Wallowing isn't going to get him out of here. Focus on what he _knows_.

She's smart. She's strong. She has covered all of her bases in kidnapping him. That might support his Law Enforcement Background theory. She's functional, and at least somewhat rational. No one with an intractable mental illness could have pulled this off.

That means she has a plan.

His stomach rumbles, interrupting his train of thought.

That reminds him of another tip, eat when you can because you need to stay fit. If he does get another chance at freedom, he needs to be well enough to seize it.

He makes himself a sandwich from the bread and the contents of the fridge. Cold cuts mostly, but he does find a six pack of caffeinated soda that lifts his spirits. Maybe next time she could bring him coffee.

Feeling much better, he even grabs an apple off the shelf. No sense letting it go to waste. He returns his thoughts to the lecture as he crunches. "Don't make eye contact, but try to establish a rapport with your captors." He remembers wondering how the hell was he supposed to establish a rapport without eye contact, but the whole blindfold thing has taken care of that. The bit about never trying to remove your blindfold or your captor's masks makes more sense. As curious as he is about her, he has no desire to become a liability.

He figures that the best thing to do now is try to make her see him as a human being, an individual, rather than a (sex) object. The only way to do that is to talk to her, something he can't do if he's incapacitated by a stun gun.

That means cooperation.

The very thought is distasteful, every instinct in him screams that he should fight these assaults on his body. Compliance is anathema to him, and it turns his stomach to even consider it.

Then again, what would he gain from resistance? She's going to rape him, no matter what he does, and boy, is that a hard pill to swallow. Holy shit, he is going to be raped, again and again, for God knows how long, and there's not a damn thing he can do to prevent it. He swallows thickly, doing his best to wrap his head around this new realization.

He only partially succeeds.

Pushing his fear down, he forces himself to think of Alexis. He has to escape, for her. Alexis needs him and he knows he'll do everything in his power to get back to his little girl.

Even this, if he has to.

His mind made up, he goes to make the bed. Afterwards he powers up the electric razor and shaves, the lack of stubble making him feel marginally better. An hour later, the lights dim. He wonders if they're on a timer. Might as well try to get some sleep.

"Keep your dignity," the man had stressed. "Stay clean, remember that you're a human being, not a piece of meat. Your captors can sense self-respect, and they'll treat you better for it. Remember, if you don't respect yourself, why should they? They may have your body, but they can never touch your soul."

He tries to remember that when, three days later, he is plunged into darkness.

"Remove your clothes and lie on the bed."

Here we go.

* * *

Most of the information in this chapter came from an article called "How to Act If You're Kidnapped  
Strategies for trying to stay safe and recognize opportunities to escape from a kidnapping; advice from Kroll's Kelly McCann." McCann is senior VP of security operations and training at Kroll and consults with Fortune 500 companies on anti-abduction training, and is someone I would imagine giving a lecture that Gina would make Castle attend. The "haul ass" thing is a direct quote.

I hope everyone has a Happy Holidays!

Oh, and if you feel like it, I would love some reviews for Christmas. Just sayn'


	7. Chapter 7

Just kidding! I managed another chapter at the library. I hope it was worth it.

* * *

He really is ruggedly handsome.

She's spent the better part of three days watching him. It's amazing what kind of equipment you can pick up from Police Surplus, especially if you are, or rather have been, a real cop. Sure it costs money, but she has plenty of that from her Father's life insurance policy. The settlement the hospital offered her after the accident for the her undiagnosed head injury simply added to it. Next to that, her pension from the police department seems paltry, but even that would have been enough to live off of, if she had wanted.

Now she had more money than she knows what to do with, but no job, no family, no sense of purpose.

The only thing that matters anymore is the man currently held captive in her basement.

She's been planning this for over a year. She's done her research, hatched the perfect scheme, and now he's here, he's really here.

Everything is going according to plan.

It's a little frightening what you can pull off with enough dough.

The book says three days, that's the optimum interval. So she watches him. He worried her a little when he'd shut down, but that was probably due more to the side effects of the ecstasy than anything else. It's ironic that a drug by that name actually ends up causing depression, at least in the short term. He should be fine in time, as soon as his body replenishes the neurotransmitters, he should be right as rain.

Once she lets him go, that is.

He certainly has a lot of energy for a man his age. He fidgets. Even while eating, he bounces his foot or taps his fingers against the table. She wonders what's going on behind those gorgeous blue eyes of his. She wishes she could gaze into them when she ... she shakes her head. No sense in wishing for things she can't have. She's too broken, and this is only temporary.

Still, a girl can dream, can't she?

She spends most of a day running down to the city to pick up her special order. The whole ride back to the cabin is spent in a state of controlled panic. There's no way he could have escaped, she's locked all three doors, but she doesn't breathe easy until she opens her laptop and sees him sleeping peacefully in the bed. He's lying on his stomach, mouth open, his bandaged arms gripping the pillow. The dressing is fresh, he's obviously found the first aid kit she left him in the bathroom. She feels bad about hurting him. The leather should help. If they're lucky, she won't have to hold him longer than a month or two.

Her alarm goes off. It's time for another injection. She measures out the liquid and slides it into her flesh.

She had better get some sleep herself, they've got a big day tomorrow.

* * *

He's already up when she wakes, doing some odd form of exercise that she's never seen before. It looks like some weird form of yoga mixed with Bruce-Lee style kung fu as preformed by someone who has never actually practiced either.

What a goofball.

She showers and shaves her legs. Scrubs her teeth and runs her hand through her short hair. They'd shaved it for the surgery and she'd found it so convenient that she'd kept the pixie style. She gathers her supplies and makes her way to the basement, locking the upper door behind her.

Can't be too careful.

It's likely that she'll have to stun him again. Regrettable, the last thing she wants to do is damage his amazing body. To her surprise, he follows her orders, making his way to the bed in just his boxers. She feels herself getting wet. The night vision camera is well worth the extra she paid.

He looks nervous, which is understandable. Maybe she should reassure him, make sure he knows that he's in no danger. She should have done that first thing, but she was so excited just to have him that she must have forgotten.

He flinches when she opens the door, squinting to catch a glimpse but she's too careful, the hallway is dark.

He catches her off guard when he speaks. "Long time no see," he jokes, grinning at his own wit.

She waits to answer him, taking care to secure the door. When she's certain it's locked, she turns back to him. "So you decided to cooperate?" she asks.

He shrugs, still unaware that she can see him. "Seemed like the safest option, all things considered," he says. She waits him out and he adds, "I'm not a big fan of pain."

"As long as you do as I say, you won't get hurt," she tells him, hoping that's enough. "Put your hands above your head."

"You could at least say please," he mumbles, but complies nevertheless. She secures his wrists with the new restraints.

"Ooh, leather! Honey, you shouldn't have." Maybe she should have grabbed a gag as well.

"Open your mouth," she orders, and he does so after an almost imperceptible hesitation. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows what she gives him. She leaves his eyes 'til last, for sentimentalities' sake more than anything. He tenses, but doesn't fight.

She prepares to leave in order to give the drugs time to take effect, but he stops her with a question. "Hey, what did you give me there? I'm just curious because I have some allergies and I'm concerned."

"You were fine last time," she snaps without thinking. He's really starting to piss her off.

"Still, one can never be too careful," he quips, even having the gall to grin at her.

"Don't worry about it. In a few minutes, Castle, you won't even care."

She brings up the lights, not keen on doing this while sporting night goggles.

A short time later he pipes up again, "You have me at a disadvantage."

"Just one?"

He grins. "Well, at least one. You seem to know who I am, but I don't even know your name." He pauses, considering his next words carefully. "I'm not asking for your social security number, but a first name might be nice."

The ballooning of his boxers indicates that the drugs are beginning to work. He shifts uncomfortably, possibly in an attempt to find some relief. Lucky for him, she's willing to provide it. He shakes as she removes his last piece of clothing, exposing him fully to her. He's right, she does owe him at least one name...

"You can call me Kate," she whispers as she begins her seduction.

He yells it when he comes inside her.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm baa-ack!

Really short chapter because I have a cold. Stockholm syndrome is really setting in for Rick, so he's not thinking very clearly. Rape is still bad.

* * *

Be patient. Watch and wait for the perfect moment. It's likely you'll only get one shot at escape.

Make it count.

He can do that.

Then again, maybe not. She swears she's not going to hurt him, and thus far has upheld her part of the bargain. She won't say exactly when she plans on releasing him, but hints that it should be before the summer is out. Her assurances grant him some hope at least, which is a good thing because she is being way too careful and he hasn't been able to figure out an escape plan.

Over the next weeks, they settle into a depraved sort of routine. Two days of absolute boredom followed by one day of drugs and sex.

Rape, not sex, rape.

He's still having trouble coming to grips with that.

The thing is, it doesn't really feel like rape anymore. Physically, he enjoys it. She is diligent in ensuring that he finds release, and while the implications of that are disturbing, the pleasure he receives is anything but. He's having the best sex of his life chained to a bed and he's not exactly sure how to feel about it.

The complete lack of entertainment in between only makes it worse.

He sleeps most of the day after, recovering from the hangover and the exertion both, but by the second day he is all but climbing the walls, such as they are. His only refuge is his mind, and even that betrays him. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels her, smells her, all but tastes her.

She has even managed to penetrate his dreams, and in such a situation, oh what dreams may come.

If she would just give him his hands, or even just one, how he could make her moan. She'd be the one begging, he's sure of that. His oral skills are in no way limited to wordplay either, and his cock twitches at the mere thought of tasting her. It's sick and twisted, but it's also something he can't deny, and he finds himself wondering what it would have been like if they had met some other way, perhaps in a coffee shop or at a book signing. He spends half a day imagining them drawn together by murder, as a writer-cop crime-solving duo, but ultimately discards the idea as unrealistic.

His emotions dance all over the place, from giddy to devastated and back again in the course of an hour. He wonders if that is due to the drugs or just the stress of his situation. Probably a little bit of both.

One thing that remains elusive is the why, and that bothers him more than he cares to admit. She evades his questions, which isn't that hard to do given their limited interaction.

Of the verbal variety anyway.

He's grateful for the day/night cycle she provides. He has no wish to experience time deprivation. It helps to count the days, the chopsticks are good for something.

Had he really been here over a month?

This is sick, really sick, he's not really enjoying this. It's Stockholm syndrome, exacerbated by the drugs. He needs to _focus, _and the first step is convincing himself that she's nuts, that this is _wrong. _He needs to get _angry_.

That would be a hell of a lot easier if the sex weren't so damn _good_.

It's gotten so bad that the loss of light alone is enough to give him a raging hard on. That he knows it's Pavlovian conditioning doesn't help at all, and will likely make him a bit apprehensive about going to the theater for years afterward.

She relents, eventually, giving in to his request to free his hands as long as he agrees to swallow the pill without complaint. His ankle is still bound, but loosely, allowing him to fuck her in all kinds of new and interesting ways.

He's going to enjoy making her beg.

* * *

We'll see how it goes. I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but I'll do my best!

And, Reviews? (Insert sad, puppy dog face here)


	9. Chapter 9

I'm not so sure about this chapter, but I hope you like it!

* * *

This is a bad idea.

In fact, this is the worst idea in a long line of bad ideas she's had over the past few years. Well, maybe not the absolute worst, her desire to kidnap and hold her favorite author captive kinda trumps all others, but, baring that, this one is the worst.

So, of course, she has to go through with it.

Throughout her preparation, she had been aware that her actions could be considered unethical at best. If she had still been a cop, she might even have cared.

She stopped being a cop the moment the drunk who killed her father walked free. She had stopped being a human being sometime earlier. It is so much easier if she decides not to feel.

The plan had gone off without a hitch. He had been freakishly easy to capture, a combination of no security detail and a complete lack of situational awareness on his part. The drugs had worked as promised, even the restraints had proved flawless.

The only real surprise had been the man himself.

Her research and reconnaissance (stalking), had confirmed his playboy status. He flirted unashamedly with anything and everything. He had seemed like someone who liked to control the situation, and she had assumed that he would be that way in the bedroom as well.

She had miscalculated.

Honestly, she hadn't expected him to be so into it, and thus, hadn't expected that she would be so into it either. What had begun as a simple means to an end had, over the past month, morphed into so much more. The thought, the feel, of Richard Edgar Castle writhing beneath her has brought her pleasure the likes of which she has never known.

And now he wants _more_.

His begging has become constant. "Let me touch you Kate, please. Let me pleasure you, I _need_ to make you come undone, over and over, not just with my cock, but with my hands, my mouth," he pants as she moves above him. She admires his musculature as he strains against the leather that constrains him. His perfect chest heaving before her, he tries again. "Please Kate, you're killing me. I'm apt to perish from want." He can't see her roll her eyes at his florid prose, he is a writer after all, but the corresponding movement of her hips shuts him up, for a moment, allowing her to truly consider his offer. She's not entirely foolhardy, she won't risk him escaping, but the idea of letting go of just a tiny bit of control is tantalizing, enticing.

And ultimately, irresistible.

She has no reason to trust him, but the things he's suggesting are so unimaginably filthy that heat overwhelms logic.

She makes sure to secure his ankle, leaving him alone for a minute to secret the key away upstairs. Even if he does incapacitate her, he won't be able to drag the bed through the doorway, much less up to the liveable parts of the cabin. She places the stun gun on the tray beside the bed, takes a deep breath, and releases the straps...

He surges from the mattress like a tiger from the undergrowth. His possessive growl completes the image as he pounces, his body enveloping her own. She had forgotten, in the weeks she has held him in her power, just how big a man he is, over six feet, and now, due to his unorthodox exercise routine, is now nearly solid muscle.

Maybe she should have given him something else to do.

He revels in his new found freedom, his unfettered hands exploring every inch of her. He comes to rest between her thighs, his grin positively _wicked_ with hunger. His elbows spread her thighs as his digits part her folds. He laps at her, rough tongue over soft flesh, a move that has her on the edge of bliss in minutes. Just before she crashes, he halts, pulling a pathetic growl-whining sound from her that she has never heard. He slides up her body, the heat of him heavy between her legs, teasing without the penetration that could send her to heaven. She makes that noise again and he chuckles.

"Say it, Kate," he rumbles, his breath sending shivers down her neck. "Say you want me."

She bites her lip, her natural contrariness preventing her from giving in so easily, but when he draws his length, soft and slow, across her clit, she breaks.

"Fuck me, Castle!"

Giving in never felt so good.


	10. Chapter 10

For those of you who wanted smut...

* * *

He slams into her.

Over and over. He pours out his frustration, his anger, and his burning desire, into each one of his thrusts.

And she takes it, again and again, until she must be sore and aching inside.

If she is, she doesn't mention it.

Her cries are a litany of "Yes, Castle!" and "That's right, fuck me, fuck me _hard,_ right there, oh _God, _don't you dare stop."

For the first time in weeks, he is unbound, free to move and to touch and to fuck as he wishes and he'll be damned if he's not going to take full advantage. She whimpers as he attacks her breasts. Are they larger than last time or did he just forget? She seems more sensitive, so he backs off, laving her nipples instead of nibbling. Her cunt shows no sign of such an affliction as her abdominals flex and extend beneath him. She bucks into him, grunting and sweating like a wild thing.

Her voice lowers when he raises her legs to his shoulders, invading her that much deeper, more intimately, than ever before. His earlier work has left her slick and clenching, yet cruelly unfulfilled, and he can sense the orgasm coiling within her. He feels it in the twitching of her muscles, the hitch in her breath, even her musky scent betrays her.

It's time.

"Do you want to come, Kate?" he whispers, his calm tone at odds with his exertion.

He feels her nod, but it's not enough. He wants to hear her.

"What was that, Kate? Remember, I can't see you..." he hums as he continues his assault, his hand snaking across her abdomen, desperately close to where he knows she wants it, needs it, before dancing away again.

"Castle," she whines, "I swear to God, if you leave me hanging, you're going to regret it!"

He harrumphs, and slows out of pique. Her legs slip from his shoulders as she reaches down to finish herself. He's too quick, weeks of blindness have heightened his awareness of her and he catches her wrists with his hands. Seeking to turn the tables, he stretches her arms above her and leans in for a long, slow, kiss.

"You forget, Kate, _I'm_ in charge now," he feels her shiver at his words, "you don't get to come until I say so."

"Rick..."

He fucks her nice and slow, drawing out each stroke, until he has her vibrating like a guitar string in his hands.

"Beg," he orders, and feels her writhe beneath him.

Her will breaks. She cries, she simpers, and yes, at the last, she begs. When he lets her fly, her screams shake the rafters. Her voice triggers his own release, and he empties himself into her with powerful juts of his hips.

After that, he takes her from behind.

If she leaves without bruises, he'll be very much surprised.

* * *

The day after, he is wracked with guilt. Never, in all his life, has he treated a woman so. He's not even sure where the desire came from, this urge to dominate and humiliate. What would Gina think of him now? Or even Meredith? What right does he have to call himself a father, to raise his little girl, when he has such darkness within him? How can he hope to protect her from all the evils of this world if he is destined to become one?

Good lord, what would his _Mo__ther_ say?

He is so disgusted, he can't even face himself to shave.

To make it worse, he still hasn't figured out why she's holding him. If he had any kind of control at all, he could have asked her, pressed her, even interrogated her.

But he hadn't.

He'd fucked her.

Twice.

They hadn't even used protection...

He barely makes it to the toilet before he's heaving, his stomach mostly empty, but still, it rebels.

It's so obvious, how did he not see? And he calls himself a novelist?

He has to get out of here. More than his own life is at stake now.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he begins to plan.

* * *

So, yay! Smut! Did you like? Let me know, because these chapters still make me nervous (although, it's getting better).

Castle is feeling particularly angsty because of the hangover. He is Martha's son, after all.

Oh, and if you like Firefly too, check out my crossovers. Rick and Mal are two different people, and one even has more smut! (Shameless self-promotion, sorry)

I hope everyone is having a good weekend!


	11. Chapter 11

Some more Kate back story!

* * *

Six weeks.

It has been a little over six weeks since she'd taken him.

Six weeks since she'd _taken _him.

Not that long, really, in the grand scheme of things. A month and a half. Forty seven days.

Far too short a time to fall in love.

As fucked up as the situation is, Kate can't deny that the past six weeks have been...fun.

Exciting.

Being with Castle, even in this limited capacity, has sparked something within her, something she had thought was long dead and buried.

Hope.

It isn't supposed to be this complicated. Her plan had been relatively simple. She wants to start over, go back to a time when she feels happy and safe and the world isn't scary and wrong.

Back when she had a family.

She'd tried the dating thing, but that had been a disaster, even before her father's death. Back then, she had been a hard nosed homicide detective obsessed with finding justice, if not for herself, then at least for the families of the victims. She had been damn good at it too. She'd even been making progress putting her mother's murder behind her, and after she hooked up with Will she had dared to hope that her life might turn out okay after all.

She should have known better.

It had been a fall evening, the first real chill of the year settling over the city, and she had agreed to go with her dad to his AA meeting to celebrate his first year sober.

Irony, it turns out, is a fucking bitch.

The other driver had been some boozed up hedge fund homeboy, out for a joy ride with his father's Cadillac. He'd jumped the divider and hit them nearly head on. She'd gotten away with a broken leg and a bump on the head.

Jim Beckett had gotten a steering wheel through his chest.

She'll never forget the sound he made, that horrible sucking, gasping sound as he tried to draw air into his compacted lungs, the overpowering stink of blood and bile and gasoline, and the slow plinking of the engine as it cooled.

His eyes had found hers, and she could have sworn that he smiled before his life faded. Perhaps he was looking forward to being with her mother again, or maybe he'd just been glad she had survived.

She still wishes she hadn't.

She had gone through the trial in a state of shock. Somewhere along the way, she doesn't remember exactly when, Will had left her for a job in Boston. Her testimony had been brief and to the point. She had remained calm and collected, even when the defense attorney brought up her head injury to cast doubt on her competency. The case had seemed airtight.

Then came the verdict.

She's still not sure how his parents managed it, but somehow, someway, twelve otherwise completely sane people had delivered something unimaginable.

Not Guilty.

She doesn't remember much after that, not for a long, long, while.

She shakes her head, now is not the time to dwell on old hurts. Today is the day she's been working towards, and her years-old heartache has become irrelevant.

She reads the instructions carefully, no sense in screwing up now, and follows the directions.

Then she waits.

Her thoughts drift to her captive. He'd saved her, after, with his words if nothing else. Somehow, the things he creates are immune to the evils of the world.

That's why she'd chosen him. after all.

The alarm beeps, and she braces herself for the answer. She picks up the indicator.

Success.

She's not sure if she's relieved, or not.

She's not sure if she's ready for this to end.

Uncertain, she returns to her laptop. Watching him has become her favorite activity these past weeks, it calms her, centers her, and that's something she desperately needs right now.

She opens up the program, her mind a whirl and heart conflicted. Hopefully, the sight of him will help her slow her racing thoughts.

The window pops up and she stares for a moment, unable to believe what she's seeing.

He's gone.

* * *

You all know what I like. It starts with "re" and ends with "views", and each and every one puts a huge smile on my face!


	12. Chapter 12

So now we get to start finding out how Castle "escaped".

Updates should be more frequent now that my kids are back in school.

* * *

_Two weeks earlier..._

"Oh God, Castle, yes, Yes, YES!" she screams as he fucks her against the unfinished wall of his tiny prison. He is right, she doesn't weigh that much, but the wiry strength of her is evident in her enthusiasm. He's not so much holding her up as she is clinging to him, riding his cock like some insatiable primate. It's totally and completely hot, and once again he wishes the situation were different, that he wasn't blindfolded and drugged out of his mind with a chain around his ankle.

Or at least had consented to it beforehand.

Sweat gathers beneath the blindfold and it must be some sort of custom piece because it hasn't slipped an inch in all this time. He's a bit more lucid than usual, he thinks so anyway, so maybe he's getting used to the drugs. Not exactly a good sign for his health but important if he's going to get them out of here alive.

All of them, born and un.

When he realized her intent, and it had taken him much longer than it really should have to figure it out, he had felt an entirely new wave of violation. Along with it came something new that surged up within him like lava.

Anger.

How _dare_ she?

Of all the things he has accomplished in his life, and there have been many, the role of father is the one of which he is most proud. Nothing, not the sale of his first manuscript or the flash of the cameras on the red carpet, has brought him more joy than a mere ten minutes with Alexis, and he'd give it all up in a heartbeat for her.

And he'd do the same for the nameless bundle of cells now residing in Kate's womb.

Some men might not, but Rick's never understood them. For Rick Castle, the desire to nurture and protect is ingrained, innate. It's who he is.

Kate needs help, and he can provide it. He won't hold a grudge, it's not her fault she's so screwed up. He's certain that something terrible must have happened to her, something horrendous, it's the only explanation. Most smart, beautiful women (and there's no doubt she is one) become lawyers, not cops. Something happened. Something happened to someone she loved and it almost broke her and whatever sent her on the path to him just completed the process.

He can get her help and then ... well, best not to think too far ahead. He has to get them out of here first.

He tells himself that he can't change their routine, that it might tip her off before he has a chance to move, but the truth is that he loves fucking her too much. He can't bear the thought of giving up the only form of human contact allowed to him.

He repositions his hands, kneading and squeezing her tight ass as they climb together. His thighs burn with the effort but the pain is minimal. Her head is reeling and she's making those adorable little "Ah, ah, ah," noises that tells him she's close. Her body clutches his, gyrating and flexing around him and once again, he's coming inside her, spurting and gasping, and cursing his weakness of will. She stiffens, and follows him over the edge.

He doesn't understand how the sex is so good, but it is, and he hates himself for it.

Time to put his plan into action.

* * *

She has always assumed that the simultaneous orgasm was a myth, made up by the porn industry to sell more tapes, or perhaps by writers with dirty yet hopeful minds.

It's not a myth.

Not with him.

And she hates herself for it.

Then again, she's pretty sure that neither porn stars nor Harlequin novel heroines ever end up with splinters in their asses either, so there is that.

She should have finished the basement.

Then again, she's certainly spent enough time down here polishing unvarnished wood.

That was terrible

He must be rubbing off on her.

Ugh.

Still joined, he lowers them to the bed. He peppers her neck with tender kisses before drawing a deep draught from the depths of her lips, drinking her in like sunlight. His palms skim her skin as he shifts, softly slipping, sliding, seating himself more deeply within her body.

They sigh in pleasure.

"Castle," she says, "I need to leave." It's true, she does, but not for any practical reason. She needs to get away from him, refocus, the last thing she wants is to get too attached.

He whines, and it's not adorable, it's not. "I don't want you to go."

"I have to," she asserts, pushing him off of and out of her in one motion, "and you need to rest."

He rolls back towards her and buries his face in her chest, his thick arms contracting around her. "But, it's so boooring when you're not here," he pouts, sticking his lower lip out about as far as it will go.

She sighs. What is he, twelve? "What do you want me to do about it, Castle?" she snaps.

"I want to write." he says.

"Why?"

"You inspire me," he answers simply.

That surprises her, although it shouldn't. It is his job, after all. It's a reasonable request. He knows she won't give him his phone or any other type of media device, no matter how hard he begs, but pen and paper should be OK.

"All right, Castle. I'll figure something out, but not until after you rest, deal?"

He beams that big goofy grin of his and nods his head. After one last, sensuous kiss, he releases her and holds out his arm.

"Goodnight, Castle," she tells him as she finds his vein.

"Goodnight, Kate," he mumbles before the drug claims him. She releases his ankle and removes the blindfold before pressing her lips to his hairline.

"Sweet dreams," she whispers.

* * *

When he wakes hours later, a stack of spiral bound notebooks have appeared on the table.

He smiles.

_Stage one, complete._

* * *

I'm so sorry that I haven't had a chance to respond to my reviewers, there have been some really awesome ones and I'm so glad that all of you are enjoying my story so much. I'm having a ball writing it. Thank you all so very much.


	13. Chapter 13

Yay! New Chapter!

* * *

He's behind her and nibbling at the nape of her neck. The bed squeaks as she bends backward. His hips rock in a gentle rhythm, caressing her from the inside out. This soft, spooning sex is as soothing as it is arousing. She thinks that's why she likes it.

A lot.

Maybe a bit too much.

Her eyes flutter and come to rest upon the table she's provided. It's a mess, with uneven piles of paper scattered randomly over its surface.

He's been busy.

"May I read it?" she asks without thinking.

He pauses, clearly surprised by the question. "Since when have you ever asked for permission, Kate?" he asks.

She doesn't turn at first, doesn't want to see his blindfold and be reminded of the reality of the situation but, as the silence stretches on, she glances over her shoulder at his half-covered face.

His body starts to shake and he's got such an odd sort of grimace to his mouth that for a second she's worried that she has upset him.

Then it clicks.

He's trying not to laugh.

She backhands him playfully in the chest, forgetting that he can't see. He jerks backwards and slips out of her. She sits up and swings her legs over the side in an attempt to get her bearings.

What is she _doing_?

She's supposed to be getting pregnant, focusing on rebuilding her family, not lounging around _making love_ to Richard Castle. He's a means to an end, nothing more, and she needs to maintain her distance. She stands up, reaches for her robe. but is stopped by Castle's hand on her shoulder.

"Kate," he says, "Kate, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Please come back to bed."

He's _sorry_?

She's kidnapped him, drugged him, and forced him to have sex with her, and _h__e's_ sorry?

He should be furious.

She starts to pull away but he senses it and draws her into an embrace. His obvious affection for her makes it worse and actual tears gather in her eyes.

It's the first time she's cried since her father.

"It's OK," he soothes, moving his hand in large circles on her back. "Of course you may read it. I wrote it for you, just, not right now, OK?" He plants a light kiss on the crown of her head. "Come back to bed. I'll even tell you a story if you want."

She shouldn't, she really shouldn't but he's warm and soft and she hasn't been held like this in so very long.

She follows him back to the bed.

* * *

He takes a deep breath. It's a gamble, to be sure, but he thinks it's worth a shot.

"Once Upon a Time," he begins and she settles into his body with a quiet sigh, "there lived a young woman who was so beautiful that the goddess of love herself became jealous. Although the woman had many admirers, she could find no one to love her, and she despaired of ever finding her true husband. She prayed to the gods for guidance, and they told her that she was destined to marry a monster and that she must take herself to the highest cliff in the land and throw herself off."

"That's rather sexist," she commented.

"Shush," he whispered, "it's part of the story."

"OK," she answered.

After a moment, he continues. "Being a good and noble woman, she followed the god's command. To her surprise, instead of falling to her death on the rocks below, the west wind cradled her and bore her away to a beautiful palace. That night, a man came into her bedchamber. He told her that he was her true love, that they had been wed, and so they lay together as man and wife."

Kate shifted uncomfortably but Castle didn't seem to notice. He went on with his tale.

"Her new husband promised her that she would be safe and they could live together in the palace provided that she never tried to look upon him. That was the price of their happiness. For a while, they lived together in peace. The young woman never stopped wondering who her husband really was, and began to fear that he was the monster whom the gods had foretold. Eventually, her curiosity overcame her fear, and one night, after her husband had fallen asleep, she snuck down the hallway to retrieve an oil lamp. When she looked upon the face of her husband, her heart swelled with adoration, for, instead of a monster, there lay Cupid, the god of Love himself. He had defied his mother's command and fallen in love with the young woman."

They both lie in silence for a while and Rick begins to hope that he's gotten to her, that maybe this can all end peacefully.

'Did you seriously just compare yourself to a beautiful princess, Castle?"

"It's not a perfect metaphor," he admits, "but it's close. This doesn't have to end badly, Kate."

She scoffs, and just like that, he's lost her. "This isn't a fairytale, Castle," she snaps, pushing him away again. This time when he reaches he misjudges that distance and nearly ends up on the floor.

"But, Kate..." he's protesting when he feels the bite of the needle at his neck.

"There's no such thing as a happy ending," she states as he is dragged down into darkness once again.

Well, it was worth a try.

* * *

Does anybody know what story he's telling? I'm going to assume that Kate is unfamiliar with this particular Greek myth because it suits my story, but I don't think it's that obscure.

Oh, and if anybody has some constructive criticism for me I would love to hear it. I'm always working towards bettering my writing, and every bit helps. All I ask is that you be polite and give me tips on how to improve, personal attacks and hateful comments will be deleted.

Thank you all!


	14. Chapter 14

Here's what you've all been waiting for...

* * *

After the story debacle, she goes back to using the restraints.

He fights, a little, but not for long, because, honestly, he just doesn't see the point.

She rapes him like a stranger, working his body as if it were some sort of well-tooled machine, and when it's all over she leaves him alone; empty, naked, and cold.

In a literal sense as well.

He goes about his usual routine during the day, and continues his clandestine activities long after the lights have gone dim. He also tries to convince himself that it doesn't hurt.

His success is ... somewhat limited.

Nevertheless, he soldiers on. Once he gets them out of here, gets her the help she needs, then she'll understand. He'll make her understand.

He has to.

He's going to save them all.

* * *

_He's gone._

How, hell, _where_ on earth could he have gone? Her heart is in her throat, although, logically, there is no reason for it. She meant to let him go, anyway. She should be using this time to put the last part of her plan into action. Everything is in place, false IDs, a passport, a little house with a picket fence waiting for her, completely untraceable.

In the end. Kate Beckett will simply ... disappear.

But she doesn't.

Mere seconds after she realizes he's gone, she's at the door to the stairwell, frantically punching in the security code into the keypad.

0-1-0-9-1-9-9-9

She wrenches the door open, breathless, and is taken by complete surprise when a muscular arm wraps itself around her neck, as something uncomfortably sharp presses into the side of her neck.

* * *

Picking the lock would have been a hell of a lot easier if she had just given him normal paperclips instead of those flimsy little plastic things they only give to five-year olds too stupid to know better. Lucky for him, he's a very resourceful man. Two weeks and a lot of cursing later, there comes the most beautiful sound he thinks he has ever heard,

the soft 'click' of the lock's release.

He restrains himself, barely, from whooping in triumph. He won't risk her hearing. Tossing the crenelated wire he has appropriated from his spiral notebooks to the floor, he places his hand on the doorknob.

Ever so carefully, inch by inch, he eases open the door.

* * *

She freezes, the sharp whatever-it-is digging deep into her flesh. He holds her tightly, the pressure on her neck just shy of breaking the skin.

"Shhh," he breathes, so close that his breath tickles at her ear. "Just stay calm. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have t...OOF!" he cuts off as she slams her elbow directly into his solar plexus. She twists, not away, but towards the weapon in order to break his grip, (Is that a pencil?) and then drops her body weight, slipping easily out of his grasp. She pulls away from him, heading for the bedroom and her weapons. He nearly manages to snag her ankle, but she is evasive. Half way to her dresser he tackles her, using his greater body weight to bear her to the floor, trapping her form beneath him. With a twinge of regret, she brings her knee up to his crotch.

Hard.

His eyes bug out and his lungs contract as he lets out a sort of strangled squeal-scream. She feels his weight leave her as he rolls, curling in on himself in a semi-fetal position. Her head aches from coming into contact with the floor, and she fumbles at the drawer where she keeps the tazer.

It's locked.

In desperation her fingers close over the only weapon within reach.

The 9mm handgun she keeps taped on the underside her end table.

* * *

He gasps and wheezes, doing his best to work his way through the blinding pain. He has to move, so he gathers his will and drags himself to his knees, agony dancing over every part of him, in waves radiating from his groin and back again. He raises his eyes to find himself staring at the business end of what looks to be a very real, very decidedly lethal, gun.

Behind which stands the most beautiful creature he has ever seen, her finger virtually vibrating on the trigger.

* * *

Thank you all so very much for your kind words! I never expected anywhere near this amount of feedback and the inspiration it grants me is truly incredible. I am extremely grateful for each and every one of you.

I would like to say that I'm so sorry about the short chapters, but I have to share my computer with my husband and 2 boys so my time at the keyboard is somewhat limited. I'll do my best to update as often as I can though. We're closing in on the end now, so it shouldn't be too much longer!


	15. Chapter 15

Hee hee hee, surprise! ANOTHER chapter for my all my lovely readers. That's right, TWO chapters in ONE day!

You're welcome.

* * *

He kneels there, frozen, takes three or four gasping breaths. She's panting as hard as he and there's a look in her eyes that tells him that she's on the very edge of breaking apart. He raises his hands in supplication and can't help but drink in her frame, her beauty, her quiet strength through the windows of his own eyes for the first time.

She has brown hair, short of course. He squints as he watches the morning sunlight play over every shine and shadow, preforming a shifting, hypnotic dance of darkness and light. He's memorized every strand, has spent hours in study, running his fingers through and lips upon, smelling the subtle scent of cherries and pine, hearing the slight swish and sway as she moves, and yet the sight of her hair, at long last, the _sight_ has him utterly transfixed.

And then he takes in the rest of her.

* * *

He's not looking at the gun.

Every other person she's seen get drawn upon, cop or criminal, it doesn't matter, has immediately and thoroughly fixated upon the weapon, the instrument of death poised to steal away their very existence.

In this, as in all things, he is different.

He's looking at _her_.

His hair is longer than it was, slightly ragged around the edges as opposed to the perfect cut and style he sported before. He's unshaven, and the stubble that dapples his cheeks only serves to heighten his beauty, and the naked want shining through his eyes sends a wave of shame sweeping through her.

"Kate..." he begins, his voice soft and low, shot through with that slight gravel that is unique to him. He leans forward, as if reaching for her but stops when he raises the barrel in response. He swallows thickly.

"Don't," she says, her own voice high and brittle. "Close your eyes, hands behind your head!"

Anger flashes in the crystalline depths of his eyes, and he sets his jaw. He has the gall to _glare_ at her, a little bit petulantly even, and she senses that she's lost the advantage.

If she ever had it in the first place.

"Was this the plan, then, from the very beginning? Use me until you got what you wanted and then," he glances pointedly at the barrel, "eliminate the extraneous ... baggage?"

She opens her mouth to answer him but nothing comes out. He takes her silence as permission and gingerly gets to his feet. She tightens her hold on the pistol and takes a step backward.

"Are you going to shoot me, Kate?" he presses, his confidence growing as hers contracts. "Are you really that cold," he pauses, and if she didn't know better she'd have sworn it was purely for effect, before all but spitting, "that you would murder the father of your unborn child?"

Her heart rate soars and her grip slackens, her eyes go wide as she blinks rapidly. Her heart, which has not regained its proper place since she thought him gone, jumps up to strangle her. Her lungs heave, suddenly scrabbling for air, her battered mind consumed by one, agonized thought.

He knows.

HeKnowsHeKnowsHeKnows...

She wails and collapses in on herself, the weapon clattering to the floor.

She weeps, giant soul-sucking sobs that wrack her entire body and leave her gasping. It's all falling apart, just like before. Her world is crumbling and nothing makes any sense and the only thing she knows is that she's alone, utterly alone, in a world that seems to have gone mad all at once.

Or perhaps, had been that way from the beginning and she had just been too stupid or naive to notice.

She's alone in a gaping black hole of despair and death, its hungry maw stretching open to claim her at last.

But, suddenly, he is there.

His hold anchors her, pull her back from the brink. Against the shifting tumult of her mind, he is solid ground, her safe harbor.

Her everything.

* * *

There must be something inborn in the male homo sapiens that makes him intensely and instantaneously uncomfortable at the sight of a woman's tears. The drive is primitive, and primal, not at all civilized but it is undeniably s present in Richard Castle, and has been since he could remember.

He takes her in his arms. He stiffens when her lips find his, but it's less of a kiss as it is a vessel of remorse because the entire time she is whispering "I'm so sorry, Castle, I'm so sorry," over and over, as if to send the message straight to his heart.

He finds himself whispering back, "It's OK, Kate, It's going to be OK," in the breaths in between. Her smell, so familiar now, assaults his senses and before he can think he's devouring her mouth with his own, the age-old give and take of woman and man, a prelude only, but precious in and of itself.

Before long, they end up on the bed.

* * *

I'd like to reiterate the idea that Rick is suffering from an extreme form of Stockholm syndrome that is made even worse by the drugs he has been given. This is NOT a "I fell in love with my rapist," fic. As much as we might want them to be happy, in the context of this story, it's just not realistic. I do NOT condone rape, in any form and of any gender.

These two people are severely screwed up.

But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy their story.

I'm not saying this is going to end horrifically, but it's not going to be conventional. If you want a hint, you might want to look up the myth of Psyche and Eros, the story that Castle told Kate.

Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Short, but all smut.

* * *

His gaze penetrates more deeply than his body ever could.

His eyes rake across her flesh, noting and cataloging every curve and blemish. Such naked evaluation makes her nervous, shy even, and she sees the corners of his mouth curve upward at her blush. He presses his lips to hers.

"You are extraordinary," he whispers, lust and a little bit of awe coloring his voice.

She looks away in shame. She's not extraordinary, she's small and broken and she's hurt him so badly that she fears he may never recover.

She doesn't deserve him.

He strips her, slowly, taking delight in each tiny revelation; the mole on her shoulder, the scar on her left knee from sneaking out at three in the morning on her seventeenth birthday. He pauses briefly when he finds the thin white line neatly hidden along her hairline, raising an eyebrow but, surprisingly, not saying a word. His mouth passes lightly over the fault, working its way down her ear and neck coming to rest against her collarbone.

She is naked and he is clothed as he rises above her, his icy orbs raking across her, taking her in. He divests himself of his vestments, baring himself to her for the first time of his own free will. The thought is exhilarating.

Her entire body shivers.

He situates himself on the bed, kneeling between her glistening thighs, looming over her like some sort of Greek god. His engorged sex bobs and weeps as he moves. She is more than ready for him. He runs his forearm along her outer thigh, powerful fingers grasping at the base of her perfect ass. His knee slides underneath her as she is pulled forward inexorably, her hips raised as her shoulders remain. He aligns himself with her entrance, spreading her wide as they join together.

For the very last time.

* * *

He is mesmerized by the sight of his cock, bracketed by her delicately swollen lower lips, as it vanishes inside her. Her clit stands proudly, firm and more than ready for his attentions. She gasps as he fills her, her hands flying to her breasts, her nipples dark and full, subtly preparing themselves to nourish the life within. He runs his palm down her torso, coming to rest upon her lower belly where, he imagines, he can sense a slight protuberance, a swelling, the promise of so much that he is nearly overcome with love. Her eyelashes glisten with moisture, so he continues until he finds her, swiping his thumb over her sensitive nub. She whines and bucks, sliding the last few inches, pressing their hips together. He rocks, backwards and forwards, stroking her clit in counterpoint to his movements.

Her lithe body shines with the exertion, taut muscles highlighted exquisitely by the energy of the morning sun. Her chest heaves and she pants, an involuntary attempt to disperse the heat of their coupling. His neck tightens as his control wavers.

She reaches for him.

Without breaking their connection, he lowers her hips to the sheets, the bulk of him resting atop her.

"Move, Castle!" she growls, and he does, harder and faster. Her legs encircle his waist and he's tasting her sweat, drinking her lips, and never, not once, does his gaze falter.

His thumb twitches and she's coming, seizing like an epileptic, wailing like a lost soul. The clenching of her flesh pushes him over and he explodes, filling her with a seed that he knows has already taken root, a testament to his fecundity if not his will.

He softens inside her, no longer buoyed by pharmaceutical means. He rolls to the side, cradling her gently as the aftershocks take their toll. When she stills, she takes a moment, to gather her courage perhaps, and raises her eyes to his.

And then she begins to weep.

* * *

Once again, thank you all for your feedback and encouragement!

A/N: I'd like to take a minute to address something brought up in the reviews. I would have responded to the poster directly, but he/she neglected to sign in.

Shasta said:

" it's not a rape when it's a man who is rape, because in law, for a rape there are to have a sexual penetration from the _penis_, it's called a sexual assault, which is the case here."

According to Wikipedia:

"The definition of rape varies both in different parts of the world and at different times in history.[25] It is defined in many jurisdictions as sexual intercourse, or other forms of sexual penetration, of one person by another person without the consent of the victim.[25] The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime defines it as "sexual intercourse without valid consent,"[6][26] and the World Health Organization defined it in 2002 as "physically forced or otherwise coerced penetration – even if slight – of the vulva or anus, using a penis, other body parts or an object".[27]

The elements that form the definition of rape under the ICC Statute are that:[28][29]

"**The perpetrator invaded the body of a person by conduct resulting in penetration, however slight, of any part of the body of the victim or of the perpetrator with a sexual organ, or of the anal or genital opening of the victim with any object or any other part of the body."** "The invasion was committed by force, or by threat of force or coercion, such as that caused by fear of violence, duress, detention, psychological oppression or abuse of power, against such person or another person, or by taking advantage of a coercive environment, or the invasion was committed against a person incapable of giving genuine consent." (Emphasis mine)

Now, apparently, the actual legal statute varies between jurisdictions, and there are some places that maintain that it is not legally rape unless there is **penile** penetration in particular. Thus, such acts are prosecuted differently according to the local definition. Still, we can all agree that rape is an extreme form of sexual assault which is definitely what Rick has experienced. Whether it can be prosecuted as rape is up to the legal system, of which I am not very familiar.

tldr: Rape is defined differently depending on where you live, but most international organizations define it to include non-consensual penetration either of the victim **or** of the perpetrator, and thus includes female on male forced intercourse.

What do you guys think, is it rape?


	17. Chapter 17

Now that you've had a dose of smut, here's more story.

* * *

"Tell me a story, Castle," she sighs into his chest, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. The tears have stopped, for now, and they lie curled around each other, legs askew, yet intertwined.

"What kind of story?" he asks, because he's still not sure what to say to this woman who, despite her actions towards him, he has come to care for very deeply.

"A love story," she answers, and then adds, "with a happy ending."

He nods, thinking he understands what she isn't saying.

"Once upon a time," he begins, because that's how the great love stories always begin, "there lived a young woman. She was extraordinary, beautiful, smart, and just a little bit stubborn."

He feels her grin spread against the skin over his heart.

"Sometime in her past, something happened, not to her, because she while she was wounded, she was not yet altogether broken, but to someone else, someone she loved, and she probably could have lived with that, but the person responsible was never caught." Kate stiffened and a suspicious sniff rises from her.

"Hey," he says, drawing her closer, "it's OK, this story has a happy ending, remember?"

She nods.

"Being stubborn, the woman soldiered on, and in spite of her terrible wounds, managed to build a life for herself. Every so often, when the pain became too great to bear, she retreated into herself, seeking refuge in the words of others, books where the good guys always won and the bad guys got what was coming to them."

Rick feels moisture on his chest, but she doesn't say anything so he keeps going.

"Years later, after a lifetime of living with such terrible pain, tragedy struck again. This time, the woman did not recover, and sank slowly into what some might call madness, but to her it was armor, shielding that last bright spark of soul left to her from further heartbreak." He traces the line of her surgery scar softly as he speaks.

Kate's body shakes with the strain, but she manages to hold herself together enough to ask, "What happened then?"

"In her desperation, she reached out for the only things that had ever given her comfort, the words and life of a certain ruggedly handsome author. The more she learned about him, the more she realized that he was completely irresistible." he smirks as she scoffs, "and she had to have him."

"Now, because she was so hurt and broken, she wasn't thinking straight, and so she did something rather naughty. At first the author was angry and confused, but as time went on, he began to understand that she hadn't meant to hurt him, she was simply trying to heal the only way she knew how."

"Oh, Castle," she breathes.

"Shhh," he soothes, "we're almost to the good part."

"Where was I? Oh yes, the girl was trying to heal." He takes a deep breath, "She thought that having a child of her own, a real family to replace the one that was taken from her, would fix everything, and free her from the terrible pain that, through no fault of her own, she had been forced to bear. She thought the author wouldn't care, that she had to do it all by herself, but she was wrong."

He pauses and brings her chin up to face him, "You don't have to be alone anymore, Kate. I can help you..."

Her eyes harden, becoming almost brittle in their intensity. She turns away from him, her hand hanging over the edge of the bed, and says, "Finish the story, Castle. How does it end?"

"The author, seeing how extraordinary and beautiful the girl was under all the agony, forgave her, and used all his resources and care to get her the help she needed. Her wounds healed at last, the two of them, and their child, lived happily ever after, together,

"Always."

* * *

She sighs. He really is a hopeless romantic, isn't he? The way he said that last word, almost as if it _means_ something, as if believing in a thing hard enough makes it real. She had lived like that for years after her mother's murder, hoping, _praying_ that by finding justice for others she could make up for failing her. She had tried so very, so very, very hard...

And it had all turned to shit in the end.

"It's a nice story, Castle," she says as she stealthily reaches underneath the mattress. She glances back at him, his eyes shining with hope, and perhaps what he even thinks is love. She sighs again, "But I told you before, I don't believe in happy endings."

Before he can react, she jabs the needle deep into his naked thigh, depressing the plunger at the same time.

His eyes bulge in hurt and surprise, but she refuses to feel sorry for him.

He's better off without her.

* * *

Probably one more chapter and an epilogue after this. Thanks to all my readers for coming along on this twisted little ride!

It would tickle me to death if this story broke 250 reviews. Just putting it out there. ;)

Oh, and Kate has Kept Castle for 47 days. I briefly mentioned it in an earlier chapter but I'm not sure which one.


	18. Chapter 18

Here we go:

* * *

The look of shocked betrayal on Castle's face would have broken her had there been anything remotely whole inside her left to break. As it is, she only feels a twinge of guilt before focusing on more important matters.

Well, maybe more than a twinge.

He's begging her, fighting valiantly against the drugs threatening to pull him under. It takes a while for the sedative to move through his muscles, but trying to hit a vein while he was unfettered was too great a risk.

"Please, Kate, please don't do this," he implores, his words beginning to slur as his body inexorably succumbs. She drapes herself over him in an attempt to calm, and yes, she admits to herself, taking this one last opportunity to connect.

"Hush," she soothes, pushing his hair back gently. "I'll be OK, Castle. It's for the best." She smiles sadly. "You'll go back to your books and your parties, back to your daughter, your life. Nothing has to change. It will be as if you had never met me."

"But that's not what I want!" he cries, his eyes misty, his grip on her arms loosening. It's clear he's close to losing his battle against unconsciousness.

She kisses him, hard, surprised at the dampness coating her own cheeks.

She's really going to miss him.

"Thank you, Castle, for so much. I promise, I will take good care of our child, he or she will want for nothing. I swear. You'll never have to think about us again."

She pulls away and he whines in protest, but he lacks the strength to hold on. His last words to her are a desperate plea that, despite what she might wish, has no chance of being answered.

"Oh, Kate. Shh. Kate, please. Stay with me, Kate. Don't leave me, please. Stay with me, okay? Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate..."

At last, his eyes close and his body relaxes. She brings her lips to his one last time.

"I love you too, Castle," she whispers.

"Goodbye."

* * *

It's evening before he wakes, startled by the voices of a confused country sheriff and his deputy. Apparently, someone had placed an anonymous 911 call to the local station saying that someone needed help and gave this address. The two couldn't be more cliched if they tried, and the writer in him itches to describe them in words. They're suspicious, but he manages to convince them that he means no harm. At least she thought to dress him before she left.

He shudders to think how this encounter might have gone had he been naked.

He spins a story of a playboy author, a wild week, and a mysterious yet alluring woman, expertly weaving truth and fiction together in a web so intricate that Charlotte herself would have been jealous.

He even manages to convince them not to check the basement.

He manages to get a hold of his daughter, who is, understandably, frantic. Luckily, Alexis is unaware of how long he's really been gone, due to Meridith's lax parenting style and her assumption that a complete lack of communication from him meant, "your father is busy and doesn't want to talk to anyone," instead of, "your father has been kidnapped by a crazy woman and is now being held hostage."

He's never been so thankful for his ex's lack of imagination.

Alexis is glad to hear from him, he can tell that she is worried and a bit hurt. He apologizes profusely, citing his breakup with Gina and a need for solitude.

She makes him promise never to scare her like that again.

His ego takes a bit of a hit when he realizes that no one else was all that concerned, that he could simply vanish for more than a month and no one in his life actually cared enough to check. Granted, his mother is on her third, (or was it fourth?) honeymoon in the Mediterranean and he and Gina aren't exactly on speaking terms. Even Paula just assumed it was a "writer's thing" and had left him alone.

It really makes him wonder what that says about him.

He returns to his loft. Everything is as he left it, a few bare spaces on the walls where Gina had taken her things. The buzz of the city ever-present.

He is the only thing that has changed.

His own investigations reveal that the cabin belongs to one Katherine Houghton Beckett, former NYPD Detective, discharged due to permanent disability as a result of a car accident two years prior. The accident report and trial records are interesting, but not particularly fruitful. Her quest to find her stalls when he discovers that she has no forwarding address, no credit cards in her name, and no bank account that he can find. In desperation, he even makes a trip down to the 12th precinct where he is confronted by a tight-lipped Detective of Hispanic descent who, in only slightly more polite terms, tells him to mind his own fucking business.

Two days later he gets a call from a Captain Roy Montgomery, all but demanding to know why he was snooping around for information about 'his Detective'. Rick explains that they crossed paths over the summer. He is hazy on the details of their encounter and the Captain doesn't ask. Castle explains that he's thinking about basing a new character off of her and wants to know if he can talk to her, for research purposes only, of course.

Roy responds by asking him if he wants to meet and grab a drink or five.

Rick is more than happy to accept his offer.

"Kate was the best I've ever trained, hell, maybe the best I've ever seen," the older man laments as they each nurse a glass of 30 year old Scotch, Rick's treat. "Smart, strong, dedicated, she was one hell of a cop, but she never lost that empathy, that concern for the victims, that so many of us give up on along the way because it's just too damn painful."

"Why?" Rick asks, topping off Montgomery's tumbler.

Once sufficiently lubricated, Roy talks about a woman named Johanna Beckett, of a night a decade earlier in a dark alley, and a cruel twist of fate. Something flares in the veteran's eyes, but Rick has no way of knowing what it might be. There are deep waters there that are perhaps best left undisturbed.

In the end, it adds up to a whole lot of nothing. She has vanished, like smoke on the autumn breeze, and just as difficult to capture.

As Summer turns to Fall, he spends more evenings than he would like to admit staring at the bottom of a bottle, wracking his brain for some hint, some idea, that might possibly lead him back to her. His mother knows something is wrong, but he feels absolutely no desire to explain, even if she wanted to hear it.

He is sure she doesn't.

Before he knows it, it's Halloween, and he does his best to engage in his usual festivities, for his daughter's sake if not his own. Heat Wave is almost finished and it helps, a little, to write down what he wishes so badly might have been. Maybe she'll read it and come find him.

A man can dream can't he?

He straggles forward, one day at a time, until an envelope arrives at his doorstep, large and smooth, the word 'Castle' sprawled across the front in bold handwriting.

* * *

Martha decides to check up on her son before making her way to her next event. She's dressed to the nines, ready to take on the City itself if need be. Perhaps she can convince Richard to join her, he's been so down in the dumps lately, she just can't understand it. Halloween is one of his favorite holidays.

She finds him in his office, smelling like a still, slackly unconscious, sitting on the floor, barely propped up by his ridiculous desk. He's not one to drink himself into a stupor and she prepares herself to deliver a well-deserved (in her illustrious opinion) tongue lashing to her only child.

That's when she notices the picture.

Black and white and grainy, he clutches it like a lifeline. She is barely able to pull it, wrinkled, from his drunken grasp. Her deftly manicured hand flies to her mouth when she realizes what it is.

An ultrasound.

On one side, the unborn child is marked with the label "Boy."

Its mirror image bears the moniker "Girl".

A short message is scribbled across the bottom.

"Thank you, Castle, always. Love, Kate."

He's certainly got some explaining to do.

* * *

So that's it, except for an epilogue maybe. Thank you all for going on this journey with me. I'm not sure if I'm going to write the sequel to this or leave it here but I appreciate your comments. Now that it's over, please tell me what you liked about it, as well as what you didn't so I can improve my writing. I'm thinking of making a go at this so any help would be much appreciated!

Thank you again, so very much.

-Trish


	19. Epilogue

Here's the epilogue. Please don't kill me...

* * *

For all his vigilance, he almost misses it.

He knows about Maratha's marriage, Richard's divorce, even Alexis' foray into California, but somehow, something as significant as the kidnapping and weeks-long imprisonment of his only son very nearly slips beneath his radar.

He needs to be more careful.

Now, his greatest fear may have been realized. His enemies are many and Richard is his only weakness, and if he has been discovered... there are some things even he has no desire to contemplate.

The more he learns, the more confused he becomes. For a week, he tails his son relentlessly. As far as he can tell, Richard seems only slightly worse for wear after his experience, and that is truly puzzling. His observations note no signs of Post Traumatic Stress, not a hint of physical disability. The kid does seem subdued, but that should pass in time.

He goes through his enemies in his mind, comparing their methods and traditions with the facts of the case, but in the end he comes up empty. It's not flashy enough to be Volkov, Richard still has all of his fingers so that rules out the Yakuza, and Jimmy Kim would never have left enough of Richard to find in the first place.

His investigation is interrupted by a moronic terrorist plot thought up by some middle class kid imagining himself a martyr. Still, it takes more time than he anticipates and it's October before he can return to his inquiries.

He gains access to the cabin by impersonating a DEA agent. The local authorities don't even ask for his credentials, which should bother him more than it does. He's far too experienced to be surprised by basic human nature anymore.

A light snow is falling as he approaches. The cottage is quaint and secluded, the perfect sort of place to hide someone. How many horrors have been committed in places just like this around the world, innocuous and bland, no hint on the outside of the horrors contained within.

What type of horrors did Richard face in this place, bound, frightened, and alone? More importantly why, for what purpose was he kept here?

And by whom?

He picks the lock, no need to be sloppy, pausing only to crank the generator. Then he slips inside.

What Jackson Hunt finds is enough to horrify even him.

This "Kate Beckett" has a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

Da duh dummmmm...

First of all, yes, there will be a sequel, but it will probably be at least a week or so before I start it. For those of you who think this story is incomplete, I maintain that it is no less complete than the episodes 3XK or Probably Cause. This story was about Castle's imprisonment and that is over. The sequel will deal with the repercussions. I love you all anyway.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
